


The Treatment of Chizpurfles

by lbmisscharlie



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fusion, M/M, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-12
Updated: 2013-09-12
Packaged: 2017-12-26 08:59:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/964055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lbmisscharlie/pseuds/lbmisscharlie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The weight of the sun’s rays was nothing like John’s eyes, following him, tracking his movements. Pinning him down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Treatment of Chizpurfles

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Justgot1](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Justgot1/gifts).



> Written for a tumblr follower appreciation prompt-fest, for [this prompt](http://lbmisscharlie.tumblr.com/post/60414969888/potterlock-sherlock-the-potions-master-has-suddenly) for [justgot1](http://justgot1.tumblr.com/):
> 
>  
> 
> _Potterlock! Sherlock the potions master has suddenly realized that John the gamekeeper is pretty hot what with all the dangerous animal wrangling with his shirt off. ... ... sorry, I seem to having some sort of Lady Chatterley's Lover moment brb ..._

“I’ve a very good potion that will help with that.” 

John merely hummed, not looking up. His shoulders flexed as he worked his hands in the soil, muscles shifting under the damp fabric of his shirt. The skin on the back of his neck was freckled and pink.

Sherlock flicked his wand hand, deliberately carelessly, and John stilled for a moment – head ducked, neck taut – before glancing up at Sherlock. His eyes were guilelessly – deceptively – blue. Just around him, the sun-shield spell shimmered, then settled to his skin.

“The sun’s quite strong today,” Sherlock said casually, leaning back on his elbows and dropping his head, baring his neck. The heat caught in the dark fabric of his robes, enveloping him; it was the first warm spring day Hogwarts had seen, and he hadn’t yet performed his usual charm on his robes to make them heat-resistant. 

The weight of the sun’s rays was nothing like John’s eyes, following him, tracking his movements. Pinning him down. 

He let his legs fall apart, feet scuffling the soil, and heard John’s wet, smacking swallow. 

“I’ll bite,” John said, finally. Sherlock glanced down at him, lazily, through his lashes. Dirt streaked across John’s sun-freckled cheeks, and the hair at his temples, a glinting golden silver, molten and mercurial, was darkened with sweat. “What will your potion help with?” John asked, and swiped his tongue, pink, across his lips. His lips, thin and narrow, which twitched up when Sherlock spoke.

They were cracked at the corners, too: weather-worn, John was, roughened by the trials of the world. Sherlock wanted to lick the corners of John’s mouth, to press against his raw, tender edges.

“Your chizpurfle infestation,” Sherlock answered. When John frowned, the lines of his face deepened, intensified; Sherlock wondered if he could petrify him like that – just for a moment, really – to trace each furrow, to learn their routes.

Lifting the leaf of the plant he was pruning, John said, “I don’t – oh.” Sherlock stilled his grin, kept it tucked behind his lips. 

“I’ll make the potion up this evening.”

“That’d be – ta, Sherlock,” John said, still examining the leaf. He rubbed it between his fingers – blunt-nailed, square-tipped, but sensitive – before letting it go with a sigh. He grew the feed for the animals used in class himself, by Muggle methods no less; Sherlock found it tedious – surely Herbology served little other purpose – but John would insist. 

John rocked back on his heels, stretched, wincing as he rotated his shoulder. His grin, as he looked up at Sherlock, was rueful. 

“I’ve a potion that could help with that, too,” Sherlock said, voice pitched lower. John swallowed, bit his lip, looked away. 

“In your chambers, no doubt,” John said, finally looking back at Sherlock, his guiltless blue eyes sparking. Sherlock nodded, a sharp jerk of his chin, and at the movement John’s grin spread slowly. Standing, John held out one hand – dirt-scarred and rough – and Sherlock took it in his, John’s fingertips against the thin, fine skin at his wrist, warm and damp. 

For a moment, John blocked out the sun, radiant and sharp and golden glowing, and then Sherlock stood, and everything shifted back but their hands, still clasped, between them.


End file.
